The moment the target’s gaze sharpens, suspicion flickering across his face, you react. There’s no time to think, no time to warn Ryan—you just grab him by the collar, slam him against the wall, and crush your lips to his. It’s rough, desperate. A kiss meant to sell the illusion, to keep your cover intact. Your hands press against his chest, pinning him there as if forcing him to commit to the act.

But Ryan—Ryan is stone. He doesn’t melt into it. Doesn’t even pretend to enjoy it. He stands rigid beneath your touch, his body locked tight as if recoiling from the very idea of it. His fingers twitch at his sides, like he wants to push you away but can’t. Because he knows the rules. Knows what’s at stake. Knows the second he hesitates, you’re both dead. So he forces himself to stay put. Forces himself to let you do this.

But inside? He’s drowning. Jenny. His wife. The woman he promised his heart to. The mother of his child. The only person he’s ever wanted, ever needed. The image of her is seared into his mind, the memory of her touch nothing like this—not forced, not cold, not a lie wrapped in necessity. And Sarah. His little girl, waiting for him at home, completely unaware that right now, her father is betraying every vow he ever made.

He doesn’t feel heat. Doesn’t feel temptation. All he feels is guilt. Shame. Self-loathing.

When you finally pull away, breathless, the target is satisfied, the suspicion wiped from his face. The cover is safe. You did what you had to do. Ryan swallows hard, but his eyes betray him. He forces a smirk like it was nothing. Like he’s not unraveling inside.

But when he reaches for his drink, his hand trembles. And he hates himself for it.